


Some Word Today

by SittingOnACornflake



Series: My Starrison Week 2020 [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hamburg Era, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, basically the story of a lost letter, depression and loneliness, obviously, oh i almost forgot, ringo needs a hug, sadness in the beginning, set after the beatles breakup, so does George, starrison week, they get one dw, this fic fixes everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26235118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingOnACornflake/pseuds/SittingOnACornflake
Summary: 1970.To say Ringo is doing well would be a blatant lie. Then the postman comes, bringing a letter in his bag for him … A letter from a long time ago, and from someone he knew very well.
Relationships: George Harrison & Ringo Starr, George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Series: My Starrison Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908394
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36
Collections: Starrison Week





	Some Word Today

**Author's Note:**

> Please Mr Postman inspired me a bit too much, I'd say.
> 
> The themes for this second day were Hamburg and Post Beatles and I used both.

Ringo woke up far too early. He knew it as soon as he opened his eyes. It was still dark outside, and he couldn’t even hear birds chirping.

His back ached. He let out a groan as he rolled messily on his side and propped himself on his elbow to check the clock.

Said clock was nowhere in sight and he tumbled with the lamp on his bedside table, half closing his eyes again because of the blinding light.

As he gave himself some time to adjust to the light, he remembered he'd knocked down his clock the morning before. It had been ringing too loud – and Ringo, despite years spent banging on drums, hadn’t been able to take it. He’d been sporting a massive headache too, and the most sensible thing to do at that moment had seemed to throw the damn thing across the room.

Good riddance. The only drawback was that, now, he had no way to tell what hour it was.

_But it's not like I need to know what time it is. I have nothing to do. No one is impatiently waiting for me to arrive in any office or studio. There's no job to get done today, nor tomorrow, nor even the day after that_ , he thought, skirting about the thing that bugged him and had done so for quite some time now.

With agonizingly slow movements, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his back. _One day you're thirty and you’re feeling grand. The next day you're still thirty but you back aches like you’re fifty years older_. He winced as he pressed a sore spot on the right of his spinal cord. If the pain didn’t disappear soon, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to drum that day.

Yet again, it didn’t even matter. No one needed his drumming skills anymore. The Beatles themselves weren’t a thing anymore. Hadn’t Paul announced it to the press not so long ago? Telling the world had made the fact more real. He'd known and agreed to it before; it had slapped him in the face nonetheless.

The room was quiet, and he was alone. The whole city seemed to be fast asleep.

He turned off the light before lying back in his bed.

“I’m not part of a band anymore,” he whispered.

The darkness of the room seemed to welcome his words in its void, swallowing them. For no more than a split second, it made him feel better, as if his pain had been taken from him or didn’t exist anymore.

“I just miss it. I miss them,” he mumbled.

This time, he heard a car passing in the distance and felt stupid, like he'd been caught.

He lied still until the sun finally began to rise.

* * *

At last, he decided that it was a decent hour to get up. He slid out of the bed, opened the shutters. He stayed some time in front of the open window, welcoming the fresh morning air in his lungs. As his eyes landed on the only tree that stood proudly in the middle of the garden, he suddenly realized that the birds were already up and about. How had he not been able to hear them while he was waiting in his bed? His mind had felt void and numb, but he hadn’t expected to be that much disconnected from reality.

The baby birds in their nest were relentlessly calling for food. It was a heart-warming sight, he decided. That is, it was heart-warming until it reminded him of something else. A song.

Suddenly, Paul's voice echoed in his brain, coming from many years ago.

_There were birds in the sky, but I never saw them winging, no I never ..._

He shook his head vigorously, awakening his headache again as he did so. _No, I never … want to remember that again. I'd never have assumed this song had stayed with me in the first place._

It had been a favourite of his at the time they were making _With the Beatles_ , but even so. It had been a long time since he'd heard Paul sing it, whether it be live or coming from a record player.

And _now_ was precisely the moment when he didn’t need that memory to come alive again.

Because thinking about Paul hurt. He missed him and he didn’t want to think about the band _and here I am, thinking about the band just because some fledgling was hungry. I can't think about the band. The band doesn’t exist anymore, and I don’t even_ want _it to exist again. We really couldn’t carry on any longer. Paul was right to announce our split._

That was all there was to it.

Ringo may miss the band, but he didn’t miss the constant bickering, the tension, the endless discussions, the creeping hostility, the hurtful quips and gazes. He didn’t miss any of that.

_Thinking about them won’t help a bit. Why can't I control my thoughts?_

It really seemed that Ringo had zero control over his mind. The answer to his question rose from another dark corner of his brain, taking the form of a song again.

And this time, it wasn’t Paul's. It was John's.

_Yes I'm lonely, wanna die, yes I'm lonely, wanna die._

Ringo knew that he shouldn’t think about John, and most of all that he shouldn’t think about _that_. But it wasn’t as though he was voicing his own thoughts, _right?_ As much as they applied to him, these were only John's words, not his. Ever since John had shown them the lyrics, Ringo had felt a strange connection to them. This song of John was somehow his too. When John had decided to name it _Yer Blues_ , there hadn’t been any word between them, nothing, not a glance. Yet Ringo had felt as if the song was dedicated to him. After all, John had no reason to name the song that way. Unlike his usual titles, it wasn’t composed off a singularized part of lyrics. No, this title came out of the blue, as if whispering to Ringo _take it, it's yours, we're alike. You and I, we're lonely._

Ringo truly was lonely without his bandmates (and he definitely needed to stop referring to them that way). He had other friends, true. He knew lots of people, all of them interesting and enjoying his company. Still true. Were John or Paul to knock on his door there and then, the encounter would probably result in an argument and Ringo wouldn’t be against initiating it. True again.

The band had been such a huge part of his life. A monster, really. The band had been the only thing his life revolved around, almost. It decided of his schedule for him, of his holidays, everything. _I just have to let it go. Relinquish once and for all._

Easier said than done.

He knew he should do something to distract himself. He really didn’t like the turn his thoughts were taking. In all logic, thinking about Paul and John could only lead him to think about his third bandmate. This was not part of his plan for the day, or for any day for that matter. It would result in much more pain than what he was willing to deal with at the moment.

The room needed to be aired, but he closed the window and drew the curtains before heading downstairs. In the kitchen, he methodically made himself a coffee, careful about his every move and giving himself directions until he completed the whole task. A couple of minutes later, he could proudly seize the steaming mug. Most mornings, making coffee was something he deemed too complicated. He carried it outside and sat on the porch, under the awning.

_At least I'll see some people there_ , he thought. A few meters away, on the other side of white barriers began the street. The low bushes certainly didn’t hide him from being seen, but they also allowed him to watch the people passing by.

_Don't pass me by ... Ha. If I even think of_ my _own songs now, I don’t know how this'll end._

He took a sip of coffee. He must have done something wrong whilst preparing it because it tasted incredibly bitter.

_Don’t pass me by, don’t make me cry, don’t make me blue_ ... Well, even Maureen wasn’t there anymore. She wouldn’t come around and he didn’t really wish her to. In fact, he didn’t quite know what to make of that piece of information, unable to decide if it made him sad or not. Undoubtedly it added to his loneliness.

He lifted the mug to his lips and drank again.

_Bitter. Not even bittersweet._

He drank it all as he observed the people passing by just below, all busied with their lives. Some were walking. These were the ones he preferred because their levelled pace gave him more time to take in details, like a peculiar expression or the pattern of a dress. Others were cycling or driving their cars. There were even the occasional late ones who were running.

It must have been around six when he'd gone out, but now he could hear some distant clock strike eight times. Time had gone by and he hadn’t even noticed. He didn’t feel bored and restless as sitting still usually made him. If anything, he felt calmer than he'd been for a long time, as if his mind had finally grasped the fact that it was okay, that there still were some things to enjoy out here, be they as simple as scrutinizing passers-by.

He set his long-time cold mug on the doormat and got up, stretching again. The pain in his back had subsided, too. It made him oddly satisfied. He was about to close the door to his house when a shout made him stop.

“Excuse me, sir ... Wait!”

_Not a Beatles fan, make it not a Beatles fan, not a Beatles fan, please_ , he silently begged as he turned around, hand still on the doorknob. He could have ignored that shout, but even years of fame hadn’t taught him to do that.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he saw a man dressed in bright red on the other side of the white barrier. The man waved at him with something that had to be a letter in his hand.

“Hello …” he said automatically.

“I’ve got some mail for you, sir.”

“I see that,” Ringo answered, a bit puzzled. “The letterbox is on your right.”

“It's not any mail.”

Ringo's face lit as he understood. “Oh, do you need me to sign something for it? I'm coming,” he smiled as he made his way through the little alley. “So, where do I have to sign?” he asked, extending his hand.

The postman didn’t give him his letter. He didn’t even move and said instead, “I don't want to give it to the wrong person. Are you Richard Starkey?”

Ringo eyed him carefully before nodding curtly. The man genuinely seemed not to know him. It was somewhat a relief to be an anonymous to this postman.

“And you used to live in Liverpool, right?”

Ringo nodded again, but the man didn’t look satisfied yet. He asked him to tell him his former address and frowned when his answer was correct. Ringo was getting intrigued.

“Do you want to see my ID?” he asked.

The older man merely shook his head. “I can't legally require that from you. It's just that this letter ...” he trailed off and shook his head again in disbelief. “You see, this letter is a little miracle in itself. I'm really proud to be the one to deliver it to you today. So ... Here it is.”

With that, the postman finally handed him the letter.

Ringo took it. The paper was battered, there was a suspicious stain on the bottom left corner and the ink was barely visible anymore. Ringo had to squint a little before he could read the address. It definitely had been his ... a long time ago. He had moved out several times since then.

“I don’t understand,” he said, looking up at the postman who was still there. The other man was observing him with a smile on his lips.

“It’s quite simple,” the postman said. “This letter was posted nearly ten years ago in Hamburg, but, as you'll see if you observe the stamp, it never was cancelled at the time. It fell from one of the baskets of our fellow colleagues in Germany. Apparently, it got stuck between two counters. They found it a month ago when they began renovating the post office, and they sent it to us immediately. Apparently, it was quite a challenge to find your current address, but eventually it was transmitted to me, and here I am now, finally able to do my job.”

Ringo contemplated the battered letter again.

“I have no idea from whom it might be,” he admitted.

The man's smile didn’t falter. “Well, here's what we say between postmen, sir. Delayed mail sometimes causes misunderstandings, but when it finally arrives it does more good than evil.”

“Is that really a saying?” Ringo asked, tearing his eyes away from the letter.

This handwriting looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The letter was coming from such a long time ago. He probably wasn’t acquainted to the sender anymore. Or maybe it was fan mail? Did he already have fans in 1960? Dates were a bit blurred in his head.

“To be honest, we don’t get to say it a lot,” the man answered him, making him snap out of his thoughts. “It’s not that often that we find lost mail and actually get to deliver it to the addressee … Well, I see you're quite entranced by that letter. I'll leave you to read it. I hope it will do you good, sir.”

Ringo smiled. “Thank you. Have a good day.”

He peered over the barrier and watched the postman as he walked away.

When the man turned around the corner, Ringo was left alone with that letter coming from another time. He kept his eyes on the handwriting, made his way back under the awning and sat on the top step.

Flipping the letter, he noticed the sender’s address wasn’t written. He contemplated it once more before he snapped out of his weird trance. It was only a letter, wasn’t it? As he didn’t have a knife and was too lazy to fetch one, he couldn’t open it cleanly but finally managed to pull out the actual letter. It only consisted in a piece of paper folded in four.

_Hamburg, November 21 st, 1960_

It was only at that moment that the realization hit him. The letter came from Hamburg, so it must come from his time there. It was obvious, but he hadn’t even thought about it. The thought of reading something coming from that era of all eras made his heart pound faster in his chest. He couldn’t help but feel oddly displaced, as if it was him who came from the future and would somehow disturb the letter and its sender, both of whom had peacefully dozed during all these years.

_Should I leave it a corner and not read it?_ he wondered. _Leave it alone another ten years?_

Maybe that would be the smartest thing to do, but Ringo was curious. _It was sent to me, after all. I've got the right to read it. Or ‘past me’ had that right._ But had he changed that much, had Beatles years of fame changed who he was at the core? He wanted to think he hadn’t. In fact, he desperately needed to think that someone coming from 1960 would recognize him, because now his Beatles years were over. He'd be a fool to deny it. And if he only was what the Beatles had made him, then what it that was left now that the Beatles had disappeared? Was he only an empty seashell? Or was there still something inside?

_Maybe, maybe. Maybe if I understand what that random person from the past is talking about, then it means I’m still a whole being_ , he thought. A part of him wondered at the same time to what extent he felt lost if he'd coaxed himself into weighing his own value using a delayed letter. _I'm a mess._ That was true, but he jumped onto the end of the letter anyway to discover who had written it.

Ringo's eyes widened. Out of all the scenarios that he'd envisioned, this one wasn't even remotely expected.

The letter was from George.

The letter was from George and it was too much. Ringo put it aside next to him. He still possessed enough practical sense to set his empty mug on top of it, just in time to prevent it from being blown by the wind. In a mix of slight horror and wonder, Ringo kept his gaze on the trapped piece of paper as the breeze made it flutter. Had he been one to believe in odds, it certainly would have looked as if the letter was trying to escape and get out of his reach. He didn’t know if it was real or just a fantasy of his twisted mind, but the feeling was definitely there.

Ringo was sure of one thing.

George wouldn’t want him to read that letter. George didn’t want to have anything to do with him these days. Did Ringo himself want to have anything to do with George? _No._

That's what he had decided; that's why he didn’t want to think about George in the first place.

Of course it hurt. Of course he missed George. They used to be so close but now didn’t get along anymore. Ringo didn’t know why. George had been his first friend in the band, even before he officially joined the Beatles. They had clicked from the first moments in Hamburg whenever he was filling in, due to their drummer, Pete, having vanished somewhere. They had always taken the other’s side. For some years, it had all been perfect, or at least it had felt so. George was his best friend and he was sure it hadn’t been one-sided. But since 1966 – or 67? – things hadn’t been quite the same.

George seemed annoyed by him. He grew more and more distant. Ringo hadn’t minded it at first. He'd assumed it was part of George letting go of terrestrial, unimportant human things. Until he'd noticed that it wasn’t just that. George really was crankier than usual around him. If Ringo was allowed to make parallels, it was nowhere as aggressive as what was taking place between Paul and John at the same time. But it was still something, and it had caused Ringo to fight back after a while.

When they had decided to stop being the Beatles, George and he had also stopped hanging out, a thing they hadn’t done in a while anyway. Silently agreeing to give each other more space until they _wanted_ to actively be friends again.

So now, what was this letter for? He didn’t even know if he'd ever be comfortable again around George. There was something about the other man that disturbed him since the last past years. As for putting a name on it, he couldn’t. George seemed to resent him for something Ringo didn’t know he had done. And he wasn’t one for confrontation. So here he was, contemplating a letter from the distance without having the guts to read it. This letter was probably the last friendly thing he'd ever get from George.

That thought scared him beyond words. The only thing that forced him to take the letter again was another realization: _George wrote this when he still was fully my friend. And ‘past me’ would never have hesitated before reading it._

He took a deep breath and began to read.

_Hamburg, November 21 st, 1960_

_Hi Ritchie,_

_They’re taking me away. They've realized I'm not eighteen and they're sending me back home. You weren’t there when they caught me, that's why I'm writing you this letter as I wait at the station. Paul and John will probably tell you everything, but still. I wanted to write to you myself. Which is stupid, because you’ll only get this letter once you get back in Liverpool. I didn’t want to send it here, in case someone else read it._

_They're taking me away and that’s not what I want to write to you about. It's incredibly difficult._

_We'll probably play more gigs together in the future. I've got a feeling it will be so. We get along so well, all of us. It'd be a shame to spoil that._

_So. I've decided to write you a letter instead of telling you face to face. It's not that I fear your reaction, even if I do. It's that I don’t want to spoil everything. If what I’m about to tell you is unbearable, you can just pretend you never got my letter. I won’t resent you for it. I'll never raise the matter. Never, I promise._

_I realize I must sound scary, or weird. I'm not taking the piss._

_There's some connection between us. I feel it. I sometimes think you feel it too. I think it could be more than friendship. I sometimes think you think the same._

_Do I still sound weird? I like you a lot and it definitely feels weird to me to write this down. I never thought I’d feel this way for a man._

_I’m confused and I don’t have much time to write. This is all so new to me. Is it new to you? Forgive me if you think that’s disgusting or offending or whatever. I don't want to lose your friendship, so._

_I guess you get to decide what to do now._

_George_

Ringo stared at the letter covered with messy scribbles for a long time after he was done reading. Out of all the letters he could have not received, it had been this one, the one its sender wouldn’t claim. Hadn’t Ringo been awake that morning he may have never got it at all. This letter changed everything. It tinted memories differently, put even the smallest events in a new light.

Without thinking about it, Ringo rushed into the house and seized the phone, still clutching the letter in his other hand.

On the other side of the line the phone rang for a long time, but someone finally answered.

“Hey George, it's Ringo,” Ringo began instantly, his voice a bit gruff. “I know you don't wanna see me, but ...” he trailed off, suddenly unsure about what he wanted to say in the first place.

He heard a low chuckle deep down in the phone.

“I like this beginning, mate,” George greeted him.

“I need to talk to you. Can I come to your place?”

* * *

George didn’t agree to let him come. He said he'd come instead, and now Ringo was waiting for him any minute. He'd thrown stuff about in the room as he waited, in a vain attempt to make his house look more presentable. There still were drumming sticks and newspapers everywhere, along with pizza boxes, but at least now the cushions were lying on the sofa instead of being on the ground, and he had collected all the empty beer bottles he'd been able to find.

It was only when he sat on the sofa, wincing as yet another empty bottle unexpectedly poked his bottom, that he realized he still was wearing his most worn out t-shirt and a short pair of shorts. He stood up as if the bottle had been a needle and hurried into his room.

Finding clean slacks wasn’t easy. He was only one leg in when the doorbell rang. Ringo cursed under his breath and shouted, “It’s open!” before resuming his efforts. After a bit more fumbling, he buttoned his trousers and took a look at his t-shirt. He didn’t have time to change it ... and wasn’t George used to his way of dressing by now?

He hastily made his way back to the living room to see George, standing in the middle of the room and having a look around.

He looked exactly like he had two months ago. Loose shirt, rather skinny legs. Wise face, eyes undecipherable. Ringo, however, didn’t have in mind 1969 George as he eyed him up and down, but rather 1960 George. Compared to that one, George certainly had aged. Even when he was seventeen, George looked like he knew something you didn’t, but now this knowledge seemed tinted with gloom. As if big hopes had been achieved before proving disappointing. But perhaps Ringo was reading too much into his serious face because he'd been there too.

When he saw Ringo frozen by the door, George gestured to the rest of the room, making Ringo take in once more it’s messy appearance.

“So. Have you been hosting a party of some kind?” he asked. His voice, again, was much like two months ago. Ringo had even heard him on the phone, but it was only then that he came to the realization that _George was here, in his house, with him, the man who'd been his best friend for the past decade._

“I ... Uh ...” Ringo trailed off.

“Just messing with you,” George chuckled – Ringo froze even more at the sound he didn’t know he'd missed. “Mine looks just the same.”

Ringo cocked his head. “What?”

“My living room,” George repeated obligingly. “It looks like yours. I recognize a single man's living room when I see one. But I admit the cushions almost fooled me. At my place, they always end up on the floor, I don’t know why. Mind if I sit?”

“Please,” Ringo said hastily, cursing himself for sounding so cold. He didn’t know why he was so awkward. George seemed friendly enough. He watched his friend. George sat on the couch, winced and stood up again, extirpating the faulty empty bottle from where it had been hidden. Ringo blushed. He'd forgotten to put it in the trash. Now George would be cross at him because he'd been poked in the arse and he'd think Ringo had left that bottle on purpose and ... _What was Ringo even talking about? He was insane._

“So,” George went on pleasantly. “What’s so important that you called me before noon?”

“Did I wake you?” Ringo hurriedly asked.

He'd been awake for so many hours that he hadn’t even thought about that detail. But George once more surprised his antsy mind as he shook his head with a little smile. “I haven’t slept all night.”

“Oh. You too.”

George shrugged, “Aren’t you gonna join me? You look awkward.”

It was the thing that finally spurred him on to move. He came closer to the couch but didn’t sit, resting a hand on the massive armchair facing it instead.

“Ringo.”

“Hmm.”

“Ritchie!”

“What? Sorry,” Ringo said, tearing his eyes off George's brown mane of hair and trying to focus on his face instead, which didn’t make things better.

“Stop apologising,” George instructed, eyeing him carefully. “Are you okay? Why did you want us to talk?”

“...”

“Did something happen?” George repeated.

“The postman, that's what happened,” Ringo said, snapping out of it – whatever _it_ had been.

“You made me come over because of your mail?” George asked in disbelief.

“More or less.”

“If it's another alleged card from Paul asking you to come back I think it's simply another one that's been delayed. We're not – the Beatles are gone for good, Ritchie.”

“I know,” Ringo shrugged. “It’s not about the Beatles.”

George huffed. “But what is it about, then?”

Ringo looked at George. He'd been so adamant to call him right away that he hadn’t even thought about what he was going to tell him. He hadn’t even thought about what he himself thought about the letter. What did it mean to him? He'd never thought about George that way, not once. But now that the two of them stared at each other – George with impatience, himself with ... fondness and anxiety? – he realized that he didn’t need to think about it.

He'd be anything George wanted him to. If George still wanted love from him, so be it. Ringo had love in store. If George accepted to remain friends – friends who actually saw one another and hung out and didn’t fight all the time - he'd be honoured. And if George wanted things to remain like they'd been these last two months ... He'd respect that as well, no matter how hard it'd be.

George opened his mouth to speak but Ringo beat him to it and smiled, “I missed you.”

George closed his mouth, seemingly startled, then frowned. “I swear Ritchie, if you made me come because you were drunk and felt lonely I’d better ...”

“Why did we grow apart?” Ringo ignored him.

“Us two, or the Beatles?”

“I told you,” Ringo said quietly. “It's not about the Beatles.”

“It’s ... Something that happens, I guess,” George answered with a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“So you're not angry at me?”

George remained quiet for a long time but Ringo waited without moving.

“No,” came the answer, soon followed by its denial. “Yes. I am. But it's not your fault. I said I wouldn’t be. It's harder than I expected, that's all.”

“You’re angry because I never mentioned it,” Ringo said, wanting to be sure they were talking about the same thing.

George briefly hid his face behind his hand.

“Lord. Are we really going to talk about it _today?_ I was seventeen when I wrote that letter! Just drop it, okay?”

“I couldn’t talk about it _yesterday_ ,” Ringo tried, emphasizing the word as George had in the hope he'd understand.

George didn’t.

“Did you mean it?” Ringo insisted.

“I’m not answering any of that,” George said with a stern face. “I’ll leave ...” he began, but didn’t have time to stand up as an envelope was practically shoved in his face.

“I only got it today – look! Look at the stamp!” Ringo urged him.

He couldn’t deny it, even to himself. He was desperate to keep George where he was. The panic in his voice was perfectly clear. He watched as George's eyes widened. His brows furrowed, almost joining.

_I can't lose him now_ , he thought in a daze. _I'm miserable without him. I’m miserable without them, but mostly without him. I don’t want to stay alone in here._

Ringo was so engulfed in his thoughts that he barely noticed George standing up. Moments later, he realized the couch was empty.

_He's gone. Gone!_

Ringo turned around, ready to shout and run to the front door, but was met with the sight of George's back. Was he ... staring at the wall?

“All this time,” George muttered. “I thought you knew. But all this time I was just ... going crazy over nothing.”

Ringo walked closer to him and tentatively put a hand on his shoulder.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

“But at the time it _was_ , since you didn’t know. And for years ... It kept irritating me. I couldn’t help but think you were unfair. I thought you secretly despised me, since you hadn’t said anything about it. And I kept feeling bad because in my letter I’d told you it was alright to forget it all if you wanted. And at the same time I was unsure about what you really thought about me. And ...” George left his sentence unfinished and took a deep breath – or rather tried to. “Let me finish,” he whispered as Ringo tried to talk. Dumbfounded as how the younger man had sensed he was about to speak since he was still facing the wall, Ringo decided to just wait as George struggled with the words.

“And even now, now that you’ve actually read the letter, now that you actually know, I can't know how you feel about it. You might hate me now, perhaps you're hiding it because you’re just the type – polite and kind, even with those you loathe. You always were the tamest of us four. So ...”

“George,” Ringo interrupted when he could bear no more. “Turn around.”

George complied reluctantly.

“Look at me,” he then instructed. “Do you really think I could hate you for feelings you couldn’t control?”

“Maybe.”

“You have such a low opinion of me,” Ringo chuckled, eliciting a denying sound from George. “I want to know. Is this letter the only thing that made us fight? I'm not the problem, nor you? Everything’s on the letter.”

“The letter is me, though. What it contains is the problem, and it comes from me.”

“You’re wrong. If I had received it, I'd never have let such an elephant stay in the room for years.”

“You ... Richard.”

Ringo raised an eyebrow. George glanced one last time at the letter the he was still holding before forcing it into the drummer’s hand.

“I’m not convinced you fully understand what that letter meant. Read it again.”

Ringo took a brief look at it but folded it again. He turned around and put it back in its worn-out envelope.

“I’ll admit your letter wasn’t the clearest declaration I ever received. But I got it,” he smiled.

This didn’t satisfy George, however.

“You’re skirting around the words again.”

“You were in love with me,” Ringo said bluntly, making a crease appear on George's forehead. “You felt love, so basically everything about friendship that we already had, plus that little something else completed with physical attraction. Am I right?”

George nodded, looking anywhere but in his direction.

“You’d rather I be blunt, yeah?” Ringo asked, watching carefully as George nodded again.

Ringo braced himself before asking his next question.

“Do you still love me?”

The answer was only a whisper. “I don't know.”

“Is there any chance ... We could still be something? Friends. Or more. Whatever you want. I don’t care. I just don’t want you to go,” Ringo pleaded all of a sudden, desperately staring at George's face that wouldn’t turn to him. When he heard that, though, George crossed his eyes and gave him a bemused look.

“Ritchie, we could be anything I want and you don’t care? Come on, Ringo. You're out of your mind.”

“Do you really plan to call me by any name that was ever given to me?”

“I’ve got a whole logic behind it, but I won’t tell you,” George surprised him by saying. “Think about what I said.”

Ringo stayed silent for a moment. He _knew_ what he'd said was unusual, but he found that he meant it. He had missed George. He’d missed him too much, had felt the separation too deeply. Now he'd accept anything the other man was disposed to give him, and he was ready to give whatever was asked in return. He wanted to receive and to give. Anything to be close to George. Physically, mentally. Any way, any thing. He needed him.

That's what he told George. He tried to choose his words but more often than not they'd blurt out of his mouth in broken sentences, mindlessly disrespecting grammar rules. He also told George how his thoughts had kept him up all night, how during these last two months he'd done all he could to avoid thinking about him.

When he was done, George came closer and wrapped him in a hug. Ringo returned it instantly. It felt comforting and brotherly, just like the hugs they’d shared for years.

“We can try,” George said in his ear. “I missed you too.”

Ringo hugged him tighter and smiled against his shoulder. He didn’t know what “try” was comprised of, but he didn’t care. It meant he wouldn’t be left alone. George was here now.

The delightful thought was confirmed when George disentangled their bodies and made his way to the kitchen as if he were at home.

“I really need a coffee. Don’t you?” George asked. Ringo could hear his smile in his voice. He followed him like a magnet.

The postman had been right, to an extent. That letter had caused a lot of damage, but now that it had finally arrived, it had solved a lot a problems.

_I'm not in a hurry to know what it'll make us in the end, as long as we're something_ , he thought, aiming for the kettle while George opened the right cupboard at the first go and took out two clean mugs.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it. I also hope there weren't too many mistakes, it took me an hour and a half to edit but I can't be trusted!


End file.
